b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » My job: Expectation vs Reality » Page 2 | Search
This is a question My job: Expectation vs Reality

When I worked as a window cleaner, everybody - and I mean everybody - I knew asked me the "how's yer father" question. The truth was that I was always knackered and freezing, and the only nudity I saw was some fat bloke's arse. Tell us how your work differs from the expectation.

Thanks to Rotating Wobbly Hat for the idea

(, Thu 8 May 2014, 22:21)
Pages: Popular, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

(, Mon 12 May 2014, 9:50, 9 replies)
I was also a window cleaner for years
and also never saw any naked boobies. The closest I came was being aware that a door had opened and then quickly closed in the room I was outside, so I focussed my eyes on where the movement had come from to see a woman emerge looking angry and wearing only a towel.

One of the people I worked with did once catch a lady in the altogether, though. I describe him as a person loosely... if you could imagine Butler from on the busses as a toothless old tramp who reeked of wet dog. He was not a very nice man, or a particularly intelligent one, and he was one of the most infuriating people I have ever met... he remains one of the few people that I have ever been so annoyed with that I have physically attacked.

One day we were getting on with the job when he erupted with glee at the top of his ladder, banging on the window and shouting 'I see ye! Ah ha ha ha! I see ye!' at the top of his lungs. Understandably, she didn't answer the door when he knocked to collect payment.

She probably wished she had, though, when a week later she was chased along the street by the little prick as he shouted 'I didn't recognise you with your clothes on, you owe me money!'

He survived a triple heart attack about a year later. I don't think he's human.
(, Mon 12 May 2014, 4:35, 1 reply)
Hey Faggots,
My name is George!, and I hate every single one of you. All of you are fat, retarded, no-lifes who spend every second of their day making up stupid ass stories. You are everything bad in the world. Honestly, have any of you ever gotten any poon? I mean, I guess it’s fun making fun of people because of your own insecurities, but you all take to a whole new level. This is even worse than jerking off to child porn on /board.
Don’t be a stranger. Just hit me with your best shot. I’m pretty much perfect. I was captain of the football team, and subjugator on my bush team. What sports do you play, otter than “being upset on the internet”? I also get straight A’s, and have a banging hot sister (She just blew me; Shit was SO cash). You are all faggots who should just kill yourselves. Thanks for listening.
(, Sun 11 May 2014, 16:08, 32 replies)
It always seemed like an, if not glamoruous, then at least entertaining career.
You had booze quite literally on tap. You could have a lock in whenever you wanted. You got to see your friends and family whilst working so you would never miss out on the social life. It seemed so good when viewed through those rosey glasses.
The reality is somewhat different. There is beer on tap, but all the feckless bastards that work there know it too and somehow think that it's ok for them to nab a few drinks every shift. You quickly get fed up of being sober when your friends come in pissed as arseholes. As for the lock ins, apart from a wind down drink with the staff there are few things more annoying than drunk family or friends demanding a lock in then being stroppy when you try to explain to them that after 8 hours of dealing with drunk schmucks the last thing you want to do is sit and have a drink with them afterwards.
Finally, if you have the joy of dealing with Enterprise Inns you learn to believe in true evil as they suck your life, money and soul to feed their failing business model.
Unfortunately I can't even leave as I'm hobbled by debt and the job provides my family with somewhere to live.
Abridged - dealing with drunks sucks
(, Sun 11 May 2014, 15:20, 8 replies)
In the days before the minimum wage and protection for temporary workers, I had a job as a delivery driver.
The reality differed from my expectation in that I got paid 25% less than had been advertised. :(
(, Sun 11 May 2014, 15:01, 1 reply)
I used to edit a business magazine
I thought it would be all cocaine, VIPS, hookers and corruption.

There was no cocaine, dammit!!
(, Sun 11 May 2014, 13:56, 1 reply)

What's with the otters?
(, Sun 11 May 2014, 13:41, 10 replies)
Fuck a job
just need a few fat bitches and donuts. werd.
(, Sun 11 May 2014, 9:00, 2 replies)
Expectation : Lots of people going "oooh" and "ahhhh" and getting some "lovely" doctor telling them that all is well and they will live another x years even though their lifestyle is shit. "Pretty" nurses and doctors jumping on people who have just had a cardiac arrest and bringing them back to the world of the living and the patient having a miracle recovery!

Reality : Lots of people using A&E as an excuse to bypass the system. GP's in the field not giving a shit anymore and dumping ***anything*** that looks anything more than a cough or a scratch into A&E. Liars, cheats and vagabonds using the NHS as a way of cheating their way through life so they don't have to contribute towards their own life.
Some drunken tosspot with a sprained ankle shouting and screaming at you in some indecipherable language because they demand to be seen by a doctor now, holding you up from seeing a polite old gentleman who has paid his NI for 50 years has broken his hip (full on rotation and shortening) after falling over, because his so called "community carers" have not been to visit him this evening.
Working for 12 hours, 5 nights in a row, with no more than perhaps a 10 minute break each night to get a quick cup of tea.

Most of us have the reality check and make sure the old lad with the broken hip gets a pillow and blankets. The drunken wanker gets their expectation fulfilled. No prizes for guessing what their reality will be.
(, Sun 11 May 2014, 1:46, 14 replies)
I work in insurance. I expect it to be dull. It is dull.
When I'm not regretting my career choices, I sing in a covers band. I'm classing it as a job because people book us, and pay us to entertain. We're not bad, and we get quite a bit of work locally. I've been asked more than once why I don't do it full time, why I don't make a living from singing, why I have to 'waste my life' by working my day job. Other people genuinely are shocked that I can get up in front of people and do what I do, considering the fact that I am grossly overweight and not quite what people are expecting.

The reality?

I'm never going to be a professional singer. I'm 36, fat and female. Never going to happen, not even if I woke up tomorrow a size 10. I'm too old, and the music industry likes their newbies young. Unless you're Susan Boyle, and I am not Susan Boyle.

Everyone assumes that it's easy money. They see the wad of cash being paid at the end of the night, and it does look as though we're making a fair few quid for four hours work. It looks easy. It looks fun. It IS fun. It's the best fun you can have with your clothes on - but unless you are a signed band, who can tour constantly with original music, you will starve. Even if you are in a signed band who tour constantly with original music, you will starve for a LONG while (my mate is a drummer, his band have played at the O2 arena, and he still needs a day job to pay his bills). The wad of cash I get at the end of night gets split between five of us. It pays for petrol, a couple of beers, and a lot of it gets ploughed back into equipment. We earned £3000 in our first year, and £2500 of that went straight to pay for most of our gear. I dread any of our gear breaking because it means we essentially gig for free in order to pay for replacements. It is not easy. I spend three or fours a week working on the set with the band, and the same amount of time working on my own to make sure I can do a song justice. We constantly change the set list to keep things fresh, and we will tailor a set to an event if we can. It can get boring. It really really can. I sometimes resent the rehearsal side of things, but it has to be done. If you factor this in, I get less than minimum wage.

As for the last thing...well. I've played in some ROUGH pubs and clubs. I've played to 15 drunk punters on a Saturday afternoon, and I've played to packed venues with 150 drunk punters on a Saturday night. . I've played to lairy, drunken, leather clad moshers. I've played to chavs, alcoholics, upperclass hoorays, drunken mums, hen parties, stag parties, teenagers, old people (seriously, everyone should have the pleasure of watching a woman in her 70s jump up and down to Killing In The Name), schoolkids, and on one memorable occasion, two small babies who were lulled to sleep by Led Zeppelin.

Not once have I ever had anyone be abusive, throw anything, insult me, or make me feel anything other than fucking amazing. I was shocked by this, as I thought I was a pretty easy target, but people have never failed to be anything but appreciative and awesome. They buy us drinks, they shout for more, and they never let us go without an encore or two. Getting recognised in the street is sometimes weird (I never expected that to happen, but it does), but it makes me grin like a lunatic :D
(, Sun 11 May 2014, 1:01, 31 replies)
Lord President Skagra
Once, a long time ago in the Constellation of Kasterborous (very far from here), before I left Gallifrey, I was, briefly, Lord President of the High Council of Time Lords.

This was after President Saran resigned over the Morbius affair (he called it a wrap) which caused a constitutional crisis. Saran had been Vice-President at the start of all the bother but was quickly promoted to full President once Morbius had turned against the Time Lords. Trouble was, Morbius’s name hadn’t been fully excised from the APC Net so he was still, technically, President after Saran’s resignation. I agreed to step in as ‘Caretaker President’ whilst the Cardinals sorted all this out. I ruled for only a few days, and was eventually replaced by that vacuous nonentity Jasten. But for a few days, I was Lord President of Gallifrey, Supreme Ruler of the Time Lords, the most powerful being in the Universe!

My expectations were as high as the roof of the Panopticon. As President, one is afforded unrestricted access to the Matrix, the sum total of all the knowledge of the Time Lords, and therefore the biggest library of pan-dimensional porn, and, indeed, poon, in the entire Universe. One also got to wear snazzy, flowing, glittering white and gold robes, wear the Sash of Rassilon, wear the Crown of Rassilon, wear a big chair on one’s bonce, bash the Cardinals on *their* bonces with the Rod of Rassilon, play the Harp of Rassilon, and fuck the Catamites of Rassilon

Time Lord Presidents were also immune from prosecution so could fuck and torture and slaughter with impunity. One also had access to the Time Vaults, the Omega Arsenal, Shada, the Game of Rassilon, the Drinks Cabinet of Rassilon and the Sacred Jazzmags of Rassilon. And the Pizza Oven of Rassilon – I’m joking, he was never that lame; it was a Tandoori Oven.


But immediately after my investiture, I was sitting in my Presidential Office preparing to access the Matrix for some pre-teen Lurman bumsex, when Chancellor Thule burst in, leading a string of Chancellery Guards bearing piles and piles of papers.

‘What is the meaning of this insulting interruption?’ I spluttered.

‘Sorry, Lord President, Sir,’ said Chancellor Thule with a big fucking smirk on his face as the guards dumped all the papers on my desk. ‘It’s just that what with the Morbius business and now this constitutional clusterfuck, rather a lot of paperwork has built up.’

I rose to my feet and waved the guards away with an imperious flick of my Presidential wrist. ‘Well, fuck that! I have - more important duties to perform!’

‘With respect, Lord President, no, you haven’t. This lot has just got to be signed off. So make busy with the Seal of Rassilon, there’s a good boy.’

‘I am Lord President!’ I bellowed. ‘I refuse, and moreover, I’m gonna have you exiled to Earth your impertinent... impertinence!’

But Chancellor Thule just smirked. ‘Sorry, Skagra.’ With that he hot-footed it from my office. I made to follow him but found that he’d sealed the room in a chronic hysteresis! No way in our out – I couldn’t even send a message! I had no choice but to complete the paperwork to break the hysteresis.

I slumped into my Presidential chair and thumbed forlornly through the massive pile of papers. Time Travel permits... TARDIS licenses... temporal disputes... Panopticon canteen menus... it went on and on.

It took me two days to finish the lot and by then the crisis was over, and so was my Presidency.

Fucking cunts. That Morbius had the right idea, you know.
(, Sat 10 May 2014, 21:12, 7 replies)
This otter thing is shit.
Better alternate meme creation next week please.
(, Sat 10 May 2014, 20:29, 10 replies)
Here's a group of water 'otters I spotted today

(, Sat 10 May 2014, 20:27, 2 replies)
Being a drug dealer's not all that.
You tend to get quite a lot of internet bullies trying to roundhouse you.
(, Sat 10 May 2014, 17:47, 2 replies)
This one happened just last night
I'm at our SoftBall club's season launch and coaches/managers meeting as both a committee member and coach of my daughter's team.

A fellow committee member - I'll call him Reginald sidles up to me. I wouldn't say Reg is a mate per-se but we serve on a couple of committees together (PCYC and SoftBall), we've known each other since both our kids started school and we always have a long natter/argument at the PCYC Grounds Committee meetings (Fri. arvo shout at the pub after work).

He's one of those borderline aspy types who it seems frequently opens his mouth before his brain properly engages and applies a filter to what he's saying and how he's behaving in social situations.
Some of his past exploits include - jokingly calling the PCYC president a cunt during a funny situation at a meeting. When queried by the secretary if he really wanted to say that he affirmed it repeating that said bloke was a cunt and then laughing uproariously. Duly noted in the minutes...

At one of our Grounds Committee meetings I saw a former work-mate Ben, who happens to play prop for an A grade local club. After a bit of to-&-fro I tell Ben to "Get fucked you dumbshit" (a throwback to our days at work when we'd give each other shit at knockoff). Reg jumps in very aggressively and tells Ben "Yeah, FUCK OFF!!". I managed to intercede but not before Ben gave Reg a need to iron his lapels and probably check his undies.

So last night - I'm talking to Reg and he motions over to our (fairly well endowed) club secretary. "I'll never get tired of look at those tits." he says to me. In a voice easily loud enough for her to hear. And Reg's missus whom she happens to be speaking to at the time. And most of the rest of the hall.

I shake my head and Reg almost shouts "What? I'm a married man mate."

"Not for very much longer." I mumble as I wander off to get some more sushi and fresh lemon, lime and soda.

Length? I'd say she's a 33D and isn't afraid to open the buttons on her committee shirt enough to show off a bit of cleavage.
(, Sat 10 May 2014, 15:33, 9 replies)
I had a job as a pheasant plucker - it was tedious. The guy in charge was always late.

(, Sat 10 May 2014, 15:22, 3 replies)
I always expect each job to be harder than it is
But that's because I'm so fucking good at everything. Except for evaluating the hardness of jobs. There I need improving.
(, Sat 10 May 2014, 15:00, Reply)
O yeah baby!
My Eastern European 'friend's' expectations. Leave your shitty country where everything is going downhill and there is no way up. Choose to live within a mile of one of the best City's in the UK with an elderly couple in a million pound house as a 'carer'(although the word isn't in your vocabulary). Demand to be treated as an equal and not a worker. Tell the old man at all times how brilliant, clever, indispensable you are. Assure the old man repeatedly it is only you keeping the old woman alive. Pretend to save her life on at least two occasions. Demand to be paid the same rate as agency staff, after all you know the job a lot better than them. When your demands for more pay aren't met walk out without a moments notice (but only for a little while). Brainwash the old man with your family and bring them all over! Let the old man help them financially realize their childhood dreams!

You didn't reckon on his sons witnessing a barbarick Eastern European practice you used on the old lady. Brought in the Social Worker but you had done your brain washing so well that the old man sided with you.

Length, you knew it would be a long stay
(, Sat 10 May 2014, 8:33, 17 replies)

(, Sat 10 May 2014, 8:12, 6 replies)
I'm an engineer.
but never worked with steam trains. That's just fucked up. I shouldn't be allowed.
(, Sat 10 May 2014, 0:20, 7 replies)
haha yeah a whole qotw dedicated to Luke Haines
(, Fri 9 May 2014, 21:14, 2 replies)
Nice to see a few otters brightening the place up.

(, Fri 9 May 2014, 20:40, 5 replies)

(, Fri 9 May 2014, 18:19, 4 replies)
I ordered a pizza from this place and, contrary to my expectation, it didn't taste of lutra lutra at all

(, Fri 9 May 2014, 17:44, 1 reply)

(, Fri 9 May 2014, 17:12, 10 replies)
Otters are one of the few non-primate species to use tools.
They'll float on their backs and place a stone on their bellies as an anvil on which to crack open shells.

I once tried to emulate them in the bath with a pumice stone and some scampi fries but I got so carried away that I pissed in my own mouth.
(, Fri 9 May 2014, 16:25, 13 replies)
Something something ... Otter Wars

(, Fri 9 May 2014, 15:32, 5 replies)

(, Fri 9 May 2014, 15:24, 7 replies)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Popular, 3, 2, 1